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  Ben nods.

  ‘Thank you,’ Django nods back.

  ‘Cat is well,’ Ben tells him, ‘but she doesn't know you are here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Django.

  ‘And Fen and Pip are well too,’ says Ben.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Django.

  Ben glances at his watch. ‘Well, I think we'll mosey on over now,’ he says and Django is so thankful that he has Ben with him today.

  Mr Pisani's appearance surprises Django who had envisaged an elongated Frankie Dettori. The consultant is in his late fifties, short and round with a very shiny pate ringed by a smile of neatly slicked grey curls. He's wearing a suit with an orange tie, has a wedding ring on his plump finger and looks like a bank manager. His accent is Scottish and his voice is quiet. Django likes him immediately though the imminence of the examination dampens much banter on his part.

  Notes are taken. Information is given. Django tells Mr Pisani that Ben is his personal physician. Ben nods but also offers to leave the room, anticipating that Django might play down his symptoms if he is there. But Django says, Please stay, and he furnishes Mr Pisani with a host of details – apologizing intermittently about whether they are relevant or not. He admits that perhaps his hips and knees aren't so much rickety or gammy as really fairly painful. His lower back too. And he adds that he has steered clear of beetroot so yes, he's fairly sure it's blood in his urine.

  ‘Prostate problems are common,’ Mr Pisani smiles as if Django has something akin to a simple cold of the gland. ‘Today, I'll be determining if your prostate is enlarged. And if it is – which I expect it is – what the reason may be. Most chaps over the age of fifty have an enlargement, you know, and mostly it's simply a benign condition. I'm going to take blood too. With those results – and the findings of the examination – we'll be able to see what's what and what to do.’

  ‘Righty-ho,’ says Django, looking to Ben for the nod and smile which he gives.

  ‘I think Ben has alerted you to the procedure?’ Mr Pisani asks with a sympathetic raise of his eyebrows. Suddenly, Django is concerned about the plumpness of Mr Pisani's fingers, and wishes for a tall thin Frankie Dettori. ‘It may be uncomfortable – but it shouldn't be painful.’

  ‘Django?’ Ben asks, noting the colour has drained from his face.

  ‘You will stay, won't you?’ says Django.

  Ben tells Django fascinating anecdotes about his time with the professional racing cyclists; he speaks quickly, jauntily and in great detail, maintaining eye contact with Django who is lying on his side. And, without asking, Ben takes his hand at the opportune moment, holding it firmly yet tenderly, talking at Django the whole time.

  ‘Thank you, Mr McCabe,’ Mr Pisani says eventually. ‘I'm done. Do dress. There are tissues there. Take your time.’

  ‘Can I help?’ Ben asks Django.

  ‘No, that's OK,’ says Django. Ben sees he has a tear coursing its way down his nose.

  ‘You did brilliantly,’ Ben tells him as he pulls the curtain around to afford Django his privacy. ‘Take your time.’ Ben takes a seat and glances at Mr Pisani who raises his eyebrow and busies himself with his notes.

  Oh Christ, thinks Ben.

  ‘Now,’ Mr Pisani says chattily when Django reappears and takes his seat, ‘generally speaking – generally speaking – an enlarged prostate ought to feel firm and smooth. Yours feels rather hard and knobbly.’

  ‘I see,’ says Django, though he doesn't know quite what he's meant to be seeing, or what Mr Pisani was meant to be looking for.

  ‘This may suggest something a little more serious than prostate problems,’ Mr Pisani continues, ‘which is why the blood test is important.’

  ‘OK,’ says Django. ‘You can take an armful, if you like.’

  Mr Pisani smiles and nods and says a test tube will be plenty. ‘Now, you see the symptoms of both a benign enlargement and a malignant tumour are similar. And you have presented those symptoms. But a malignant tumour feels rather different to a benign enlargement.’

  ‘A malignant tumour?’

  ‘Most prostate cancers grow very slowly indeed, Mr McCabe.’

  ‘Cancer?’ Django stands up and looks at Ben in bewilderment. ‘Who said anything about cancer? It's my waterworks. I'm just old.’

  Al and the Girl from Purley

  Despite all manner of skewed rationalization, Fen felt uncomfortable and at a loss. In the past, at such times, there was always Derbyshire to escape to – even if only in the realms of her imagination – but now not even that seemed an option. She was hardly likely to phone Django, nor did she consider the cause of her discomfort an appropriate topic of discussion between sisters. What was she meant to say? She told herself her sisters wouldn't understand – they'd go on about rocky patches and she didn't want to be judged or lectured.

  Fen had long had an idiosyncrasy of looking from one hand to the other when weighing issues which irked her, to assist her in making a choice. Some saw it as an affectation, but it had proved a fail-safe method for her. For the second time in his life, Matt unknowingly was being held in Fen's left palm. Four years ago, a man called James Caulfield had been in her right palm. For a while she fought against having to choose, railed against her sisters' accusation of immorality, disputed their allegation of duplicity. She'd made her choice only when she realized the love she felt for Matt was more ordinary, thus somehow deeper and more true. And she has never looked back, never wondered What if, never doubted her decision. But now Matt is unwittingly back in one hand, and this time Al – whose surname she doesn't even know – is in the other; yet this time they weren't unsuspecting pawns competing for Fen's love. Love wasn't coming into it at all. On the one hand, Fen feared love was lost from her relationship. On the other hand, she feared the lure of lust. Left, right. Love, lust. Right, wrong. Her scale of values was unbalanced and tipping dangerously in favour of Al.

  The easiest way to keep guilt at bay and to give her feelings for Al credibility, was to blame Matt for the irritation she felt increasingly towards him. She begrudged his freedom to go to work but also resented him for not being around more, for not helping enough, for not spending quality time with Cosima. Yet when he did, his ways got on her nerves, he got in her way and ultimately, she didn't trust him to be doing things quite right so she brushed him away, did whatever it was herself, felt put upon, then resented him. In Fen's eyes, Matt couldn't win, and she felt that this was his fault. She didn't like the sound of him eating and yet she'd never noticed it before. At night, she slept with a pillow half over her head because the incessant sound of Matt sleeping kept her awake. She didn't like the monotony of their communication; his daily question of ‘And how are my girls?’ set her teeth on edge – Fen didn't like it that he lumped her and Cosima together, that he only half listened to her answer anyway while he opened post or checked the television listings in the newspaper. He didn't seem to notice if Fen's hair needed a wash and she was wearing stained clothing, or there again if she'd made an effort with mascara and had changed before he arrived home. She was aware that her friends and sisters would proclaim her lucky indeed to have a man who never judged her on her looks but Fen interpreted it as Matt not really noticing her at all.

  Left hand, right hand. Good, bad. Right, wrong. Harmless, dangerous. Fen's scales appeared to be peculiarly calibrated at best; at worst downright faulty. On the one hand, the marks Fen placed against Matt became blacker, on the other hand the warning signs she'd seen in Al became fainter. Taken together, their collusion was dangerous and deluded, exacerbated by the fact that it had been almost a week since she'd seen Al and she'd heard nothing. Al's desirability increased the longer the message box on her mobile phone remained empty. The less he appeared to want her, the more she wanted to pursue him. These last few days, during which she'd consulted her phone with frustration and growing insecurity, and analysed the palms of her hands with increasing regularity, Fen had reinvented Al and invested him with much more bearing than his ac
tual gaucherie. She reassessed his shared living arrangements in deepest darkest Camden as funky and intriguing, and in her mind's eye he'd become far more buff and beautiful. She had transposed her previous image of him as a fairly nondescript young bloke, into a vision of an arresting enigma. When Matt attempted to travel his hands over her body last night, she'd initially flinched but then an image of Al's hands came into view and even all the silver rings suddenly seemed achingly sexy. So she fucked Al while Matt made love to her. She squirmed away from Matt's post-coital cuddle and then she'd put the pillow over her head to block out the warning bells as much as Matt's breathing pattern.

  Fen convinced herself that her self-esteem depended entirely on Al desiring her, that if she could just seduce him, her sense of her own femininity and self-worth would be restored. And, with her head under the pillow muffling any sound of chastisement or ridicule, she gamely justified that it would do her disintegrating relationship with Matt the power of good. She'd often read about stale relationships being rejuvenated by one or other partner having no-strings secret flings; heartening accounts of how people fell in love with their partners all over again in the aftermath of affairs. If she had a fling with Al, she'd see sense, wouldn't she? A fling with Al would prove what Matt truly meant to her, wouldn't it? A fling with Al would have a positive impact on her libido and this in turn would have a positive effect for Matt. Fen was convinced that if she had a fling with Al, she'd be doing everyone a favour.

  But it had been three days since she'd seen him. And because it had been three whole days and because she'd heard nothing, Fen found it easy to transform Al from a bad idea best forgotten into an exciting challenge. She convinced herself that actually, hadn't she told him that she'd be in touch?

  1.12 p.m.

  hey Al, ta 4 drinx. See u soon?

  7.56 p.m.

  If Matt had at least forewarned me that he was going to be home late, I wouldn't be sitting here, feeling neglected.

  8.00 p.m.

  ‘Oh, hi – is that Al?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It's Fen.’

  ‘Oh – hi Fen.’

  ‘I just thought I'd give you a quick call – I sent you a text earlier but I think I forgot to put my name to it.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Anyway, just thought I'd give you a quick call. How are you doing?’

  ‘Yes – good. And you?’

  ‘Oh, you know, busy.’

  ‘Cool. Cool.’

  ‘Anyway – I'd better go, I suppose. I just thought – maybe meet up for a quick drink or something?’

  ‘Cool – I'll give you a call.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘OK, Fen – bye then.’

  ‘Bye. Oh. When? Ish?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Us fusty old mums need time to organize babysitters – so I was just wondering if you had an idea of when? You know – when you'd be calling and when we'd meet up?’

  ‘Oh. Soon. Next couple of days?’

  ‘Great. Bye Al.’

  ‘See you, Fen.’

  That call was crap. Ought I to text him to rectify? Should I just compose one and see how it looks on the screen? Or should I sit on my hands and watch Grand Designs and keep shtum?

  Who are you asking, Fen?

  And by the way, where is Matt?

  Matt is having an impromptu drink after work with an old mate, Jake, with whom he shared a flat and a certain level of rakishness in their twenties. Though their thirties have led them onto divergent paths, their friendship continues and they like to meet up every now and then and live vicariously through one another, just for the duration of an entertaining evening. Jake has taken to calling Matt ‘Daddy’, and Matt calls Jake ‘Twat’. They are in Soho and the area is buzzing. Matt hates to admit even to himself how long it has been since he last had a night out in town; he hadn't thought he'd missed it, he wasn't aware of having craved it but it's reviving to be back here, heading through the colourful milling crowd to a bar, past shops specializing in everything from whisky to ship's chandlery, gay paraphernalia to hip and costly trainers, from sushi to sex. The bar is new to Matt though Jake informs him it's been open awhile, and is the place to drink and Where the fuck have you been, Daddy – it's where all manner of media scandal and celebrity debauchery are often chronicled. Shut up, Twat, and buy me a beer.

  While Jake orders, Matt quietly wonders if he looks out of place, whether it's obvious that he's more accustomed to slouching in front of the television with a ready meal and being in bed by midnight. He scouts other people's clothing and footwear, feeling slightly faded and last-season in comparison; resolves to spend a lunch-time and a wage packet in Paul Smith the next day. Does he feel out of place? A little, just a little at the moment. But beer will help and make all equal.

  ‘They only do bizarre beer in piss-pale shades from places like Latvia,’ Jake apologizes, setting down two over-designed bottles in front of them. ‘Cheers anyway.’

  ‘Cheers mate,’ says Matt. ‘How's it going?’

  ‘Madly busy at work,’ Jake rues, ‘and complicated as ever at play.’

  Matt laughs. Jake lights a cigarette and offers one to Matt who falters for a moment and then takes one. He was only ever a social smoker but the arrival of Cosima stipulated a nicotine-free zone and now, the head rush he experiences after the first few drags is slightly disconcerting yet nostalgic and oddly liberating.

  ‘There's this girl,’ Jake is saying, clasping the cigarette between his lips as he describes her assets crudely with his hands. ‘She's a total babe – Suze – pretty young but bloody bright. Anyway, I thought she was just after a good time, you know?’

  Matt nods sagely as if he does.

  ‘Suited me fine – absolutely. You know, finally a woman after my own heart – or rather, not after my heart but only my body. No-strings sex and the like. But the weird thing is,’ Jake continues, sotto voce, ‘increasingly I find myself wanting a bit more.’ Jake slaps the table and roars with laughter. ‘What the fuck is all that about then? Usually they harp on at me about mini-breaks and meeting my parents and bollocks, and here I am, toying with the idea of asking her to move in. Here's me, pissed off if she hasn't phoned all day!’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Matt marvels, with a glug and a drag.

  ‘Bloody hell is right,’ Jake says darkly. ‘Wedding bells and babies.’

  ‘Have you talked to her?’ Matt asks. Jake answers him with a look of ridicule.

  ‘As I say, she hasn't phoned all day,’ says Jake morosely, ‘but I'm damned if I'm going to call her.’

  ‘I meant,’ says Matt, ‘have you talked to her about – you know – how you feel? Longevity? The C word.’

  ‘Cunt?’ says Jake.

  ‘Commitment,’ says Matt. ‘Twat.’

  ‘Well. Almost. You see, what complicates it,’ Jake says, ‘is that Ellie is still on the scene – casually.’ Matt covers his eyes in mock distaste. ‘I mean, I never ring her, really. Well, not really,’ says Jake. ‘Sometimes I do – if I'm bored or drunk or both. And when she rings me – well, it's a bit mad to turn it down, isn't it?’

  To Matt, Jake's life sounds dictionary-definition mad. Momentarily, it all seems a little unsavoury too, unnecessarily complicated and way too tiring. It's not a been-there, done-that derision Matt feels as he never quite subscribed to Jake's low-level ethics, more it's an uncomfortable feeling of what the allure can still be for Jake. Isn't he bored after well over a decade of bawdiness? Oughtn't he to have outgrown such philandering? Doesn't he aspire to a more grown-up way of life? A quiet side of Matt is slightly insulted that his own lifestyle, the developments and changes, the achievements and differences, appear to hold little attraction for Jake. Though Jake usually asks after Fen, after the baby, after the mortgage and the mundanity, Matt detects a perfunctory edge before Jake deviates to humorous accounts of his own ongoing hedonism. Jake is a great raconteur – and that's the point of such evenings. But Matt has to admit that the fact tha
t their lives are now so disparate is also the reason that they now meet so infrequently.

  However, alcohol is a great leveller. Once a certain level of inebriation has been reached, Matt finds he and Jake are blokes with equal charisma, wit and highly entertaining neuroses. So they drink and they smoke and they banter. They put the world to rights, they re-train the England soccer squad and they recite lengthy tracts from The Office. Jake confides that he had to be treated for chlamydia after a mad week in Aya Napa and Matt reveals that a baby and a sex life is a contradiction in terms.

  ‘Do you not fancy Fen like you used to?’ Jake asks, with slurred concern. ‘I've heard about this – it's a syndrome, mate. Once you've seen what her vagina is really for, you can never see it as your playpen again.’

  But Matt shakes his head.

  ‘Oh!’ Jake whispers. ‘Oh.’ He nods his head earnestly. ‘I've heard about that too,’ he says. ‘It's another syndrome – that childbirth alters, well, the feel of the fuck. Like a familiar room with all the furniture moved around. Or, worse, gone.’

  Matt laughs but shakes his head. Jake looks a little surprised that he's wrong again.

  ‘Too tired?’ he tries.

  ‘Partly,’ says Matt.

  ‘Oh God – she's not up the duff again is she?’

  ‘Hardly!’ Matt snorts. He contemplates the cocoon of ash lying pristine on his knee. He flicks it away. ‘I'm not getting it because Fen seems to have gone off me.’

  ‘Maybe she's still – you know – sore?’

  ‘What, ten months on?’ Matt argues. ‘Mate – it's like her opinion of herself has altered. She has this whole new identity. She loves being a mummy but she's not that into being my girlfriend.’

  ‘She turns you down?’ Jake is appalled.

  ‘I guess,’ says Matt, ‘yes. And when we do have sex – I sense it's more like she just wants a simple shag. An orgasm – and quick.’